Casanova: Never Stop Looking
by XWingAce
Summary: [Casanova BBC] An addict must be an expert in his downfall... A series of ficlets exploring the character of Giacomo Casanova.
1. A grumpy old man in a cold castle

Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. Casanova was a real person. I'm playing with the impression of the good man created by Russel T Davies' marvellous adaptation of his life's work. I assume that this version is owned by the BBC. 

These ficlets are being written for the 50 lyrics fanfic challenge; however, because of this site's policy on songfics, and since the lyrics' only function is to inspire the story, I shall not be quoting them here. You can find the version with lyrics included on my journal. I am posting them here as a single story, but every chapter should be able to stand by itself.

Much credit goes to Saganami Dreams for her wonderful betaing.

I still write to get better at writing. The only way for me to improve is if my readers tell me what they think I got wrong. Please tell me, either in a review or email me at xwingace at gmail dot com.

Enjoy,

XWA

--

**A Grumpy Old Man in a Cold Castle**

The library was cold, despite the warm climate. But at least it was dry. Not that this was for the benefit of the librarian, who sat warming his cold hands at one of the numerous candles. No, the library was placed in a dry spot so it would keep the books from being damaged. Nothing in this castle was ever done for the benefit of the librarian, unless the castellan specifically ordered it. The household staff despised him, jealous of his easy literacy, his fine manner of dress and his educated speech, relics of his better days.

And such days they had been. For however badly they had ended, the beginnings had been full of joy and love and curiosity. Oh, to live them again.

Maybe he could. There was paper aplenty here, after all, and quills and ink, and he had nothing but time. His duties were neither onerous, nor many. His employer employed him as much for his name as for his work. The nobleman might even be overjoyed with an account of those glory days.

The librarian smoothed out a sheet of paper, sharpened a quill and dipped it into an inkwell.

The pen traced the first words onto the page:

"_The Memoirs of Giacomo Casanova, Seigneur de Seingalt._"


	2. You wanted me to keep it clean?

Disclaimer: All this belongs to the BBC. I'm just playing. Please don't sue.

Big thanks to Saganami Dreams for her wonderful encouragement and corrections.

I need feedback in order to improve. Please tell me what you think.

Enjoy,

XWA

--

**You wanted me to keep it clean?**

There was no more paper.

That pulled the librarian out of his reverie. He'd been caught up in his memories, reliving them so intensely he'd forgotten he was trying to write them down.

On paper, he could precisely identify the point at which he'd descended completely into recollection. From there, the elegant and concise French phrasing lapsed into cruder and verbose Italian, and the handwriting degenerated as the pen had struggled to keep up with his thoughts. Ink spots and small tears where the point had cut into the paper marred the lower part of the sheet. Words and letters cramped together ever closer as the end of the page neared, where he'd attempted to fit more thoughts into a constantly decreasing space.

He'd lost himself. Lost himself in the experiences of a boy on his way to losing his innocence.

But innocence wasn't as easily lost as the priests would have one believe. No, that young boy, and even that young man, had remained _innocent_ for years to come. He had lost nothing that night. Instead he had gained something - focus. Where all actions, all thoughts, every fibre of his being were concentrated towards a single point, with a single purpose.

And the release of that focus brought with it confidence. Together these things allowed a bright but scatterbrained and shy lad to become the star pupil of his masters, and the most favoured among the young women that kept house for the school. Oh yes, happy days.

But this description of how a young man discovered his focus wouldn't do. The only place in this library suitable to house it was the second shelf on the left, and for that the prose was far too awkward to be worthwhile. So, an honest account of his experiences it might be, the librarian considered, but still he had best rewrite it.

And this time, he would have to focus.


	3. A step down

Disclaimer: All this belongs to the BBC. I'm just playing. Please don't sue.

Big thanks to Saganami Dreams for her wonderful encouragement and corrections.

I need feedback in order to improve. Please tell me what you think.

Enjoy,

XWA

--

**A Step Down**

The footman who opened the small door in the gates looked her over from top to bottom and back before speaking. "You the new girl?"

"Yes. My name is Edith."

The footman stepped back to let her in, then waved his arm towards one of the doors opening out into the courtyard. "Kitchen's that way. Cook'll get one of the girls to show you around."

But Edith was too busy observing all that was happening in the courtyard to hear the words. Her eyes wandered along in the direction indicated. First they passed the stables where two stablehands were taking care of the horses; a little further along a girl barely older than herself was feeding chickens. Another girl was sweeping hay or straw out of a doorway, pausing occasionally to let men carrying buckets of something or other through. 

It actually looked like quite a happy bustle, but the actions of all the people she saw spoke of a practised routine; the things these people were doing were things they had done a hundred times before. If they were happy, it was with indulging themselves in the distractions their co-workers afforded; the men carrying buckets whistling at the sweeping girl, the grooms tossing horse-brushes at each other, completely missing the chicken girl's rather forward attempts at attracting their attention.

Was this what she was supposed to do from now on? Perform mindless work, the same day in day out, with the only amusements provided by this rather crude company. It wasn't really a fate for the daughter of someone who had once been the burgomaster of Valencia, an important man.

Unfortunately, her father was dead now, and any status she might have derived from him dwindled with the family funds as soon as her father's creditors came knocking.

"Hey! You alive in there?" The footman interrupted her thoughts. He sounded annoyed. "We've got no use for idiots. Get moving. Cook's waiting for you."

Nothing for it but to go, then. On to the grindstone. 


	4. A City that devours the weak

Disclaimer: All this belongs to the BBC. I'm just playing. Please don't sue.

Big thanks to Saganami Dreams for her wonderful encouragement and corrections.

I need feedback in order to improve. Please tell me what you think.

Enjoy,

XWA

--

**A City That Devours the Weak**

_Edith watched as the librarian –Giacomo Casanova, man of legend – paced across the room, caught up in his own storytelling. There was a sparkle in his eye and a flush to his face that brought out the young man in the old body, as if the youth was standing in the room with them._

Casanova had walked over to the window and was staring out of it. Edith doubted that his eyes were taking in the hills around the castle disappearing into the mists. They were focused on something else entirely as he continued his tale.

"And then came Venice. Twenty-one years old, dressed in Florentine lace and Chinese silk. Versed in Latin and Greek, French and Spanish; philosophy and science and theology and music… A head full of facts and breeches full of fire and a heart already in love; in love with that city: the Republic of Venice."

The barge was sailing up the lagoon, and the skyline of the city was emerging from the fog. Finally, Venice. City of canals, city of trade, city of art and literature, but most importantly, the city of his birth. Giacomo Casanova, the prodigal son, was coming home.

Okay, his homecoming had been expedited due to a minor misunderstanding in Florence about the payment for an exquisitely tailored suit. That and a slightly less minor disagreement about the tailor's wife's marital fidelity, which was confusing, because Giac honestly recalled the wife _inviting_ him into her boudoir. When her husband showed up, however, the man was for some reason in no mood to discuss the misunderstanding. Giac had had to make his escape.

The whole thing meant he was coming home sooner than anticipated. But not that much sooner. His planned return had lain only a few weeks in the future and, to be honest, he'd been impatient to see the city again. For the first time, in many ways. He'd left - been sent away - as a young boy, too young to remember the majesty of Venice. He had yet to experience the city beyond the circumstances of his boyhood home. He knew the bright colours of his mother's clothing and that of her patrons and the pallor of the flesh when those robes were removed. The shine of crowds moving through the streets or the sun breaking over the canals, however, were wonders yet to be discovered. The glitter of gold and jewellery - well, that had always been the same.

Gold and jewellery, oh yes. Venice was rich, and Giac was smart and educated in everything a young man needed to know to be accepted into society. He knew literature and music and the art of discussion, and Venice, patron of all things artistic, would fall at his feet, begging for his favour. Within days he'd be the closest confidant of the Doge himself.

Hmm, maybe that was an unrealistic assumption. Then again, there was nothing like a high goal to concentrate the mind, and as goals went, there were none higher.

The barge had finished docking, and Giac stepped onto the quay. He had no luggage to burden him, due to the hurry in which he had left Florence. He travelled with nothing but the clothes on his back, finely tailored though they were, and the money in his purse. No possessions, nobody to meet him, nowhere to go.

He was well travelled, but before he had always sent letters of introduction ahead of his arrival, ensuring there would be people awaiting him - a friend of a friend or a new employer or a patron of the arts - there to welcome and guide him through a new place. Not this time. His letters of introduction were in the mailbags now being unloaded from the barge; nobody knew him, knew to expect him. He was on his own. The one drawback of arriving a little early.

Oh well. Sightseeing was something he could do on his own just as well as in company. Who knew, maybe he could wrangle himself a bed for the night somewhere. He had quite fond experiences, especially with female lovers of the arts, in that direction.

There seemed to be some sort of party going on in one of the piazzas. Marvellous. Time to mingle. He grabbed a glass of wine from a passing tray and headed into the crowd.

Music drifted out of a window, but it was barely audible over the cacophony of scores of people, all chatting amiably in groups of three and four. And the riot of colouring from the garments, consisting of at least two brightly contrasting colours and as much gold ornamentation as the owner could afford, only added to the confusion. Giac struggled to catch a strain of conversation from the nearest group, and tried to contribute to it, but the people in the group ignored him. As did the next group. And the one after that.

After ten minutes of trying with increasing desperation to fit in, Giac felt a little dizzy. He was almost starting to doubt he existed for these people.

But then Giac caught the gaze of a woman, clad in bright red. She was staring right at him. The stare was charged with a strange energy, sending shivers through his spine. He checked over his shoulder, making sure she really _was_ staring at him. She was. He mouthed a question at her. She smiled, and that was truly a moment when the world reasserted itself. He existed, so did she, and all he had to do was walk across and greet her properly. But then she turned away and he was alone again.

Right. He could do this. He drained his glass of wine and renewed his search for a conversation he could join.

From one group he caught a familiar name: that of a cardinal he had worked for as a secretary for a few months. The group had one man, clad surprisingly soberly in rich blue, dominating the conversation. This man could use some counterweight. Oh, and he was talking about literature, too! Yes, this was the conversation that would let Giac's talents shine.

Giac started off with a joke about language; it had always been greeted with appreciation, but here it fell flat. For one long moment, the participants in the conversation all stared at him before continuing as if he'd never spoken.

Still, at least they had given some indication that they'd heard him. Now was not the time to give up. Blue coat continued his monologue about literature, but he had completely the wrong idea about a poem by Ariosto. Giac once more interrupted with a correction. And this time, he wasn't ignored. Success!

"Who the hell are you?" the man demanded.

Yes! Finally, a chance to introduce himself, and Giac made use of it enthusiastically, meeting the eyes of everyone in the group before returning his attention to Blue coat.

The look he received from the man in the blue coat was sort of friendly, though there was no warmth in his eyes. Still, the man's tone of icy civility never wavered as he showed Giac first his hand, then his fist, and then drew his fist back…

…to punch Giac square in the face.

_Now_ the group laughed, and the man in the blue coat called him a peasant before turning away as if Giac had ceased to exist.

That was okay. Giac had enough to keep him busy. The punch had triggered a bloody nose, a problem from his youth he'd thought long past. Just like being ridiculed, or laughed at for being an idiot, or simply being utterly ignored. But all that was for later care; now he was really more concerned with keeping the blood off his clothes.

Handkerchief pressed against his nose, Giac left the piazza in search of a fountain.  



End file.
